


There's comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool

by PoemAboutCitylights



Series: The aftermaths [1]
Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Australian Open, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Rafa's knees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 17:05:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13462665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoemAboutCitylights/pseuds/PoemAboutCitylights
Summary: Roger visits Rafa in the locker room after he has to drop out of the Australian Open due to an injury.





	There's comfort at the bottom of a swimming pool

Roger ignored the people and their voices that were trying to hold him back and pushed past dozens of familiar faces on the way through the tunnels of the Rod Laver Arena.  
No one was actually trying to keep him from entering the player’s locker rooms, though. Roger knew that the determined look on his face did its work and none security man on earth would be able to stop him.  
He had been hitting some balls with his coaches on the courts in the hall, where the press had no access. As usual, he had not been watching the Spaniard’s match, they mostly never did that for various reasons. Sure, Roger did watch some of Rafa’s matches, but mainly together with his team to analyse the Majorcan’s play before an encounter. But not to cheer for Rafa. At least not when they were still to meet in a tournament.  
Of Rafa’s finals, Roger had missed none.  
But staying away from the TV when the Spaniard was playing made it generally easier to play against each other later on. It made it easier to deal with the emotions.  
  
But even hidden away in the training halls a little off, there was no way that Roger could miss what was going on in the Rod Laver Arena.  
He had dropped everything when the news had reached him, which was the reason why he was making his way to the locker rooms right now, his breath still going too fast from how fast he had been running.  
It was Carlos Moya, eventually, whose tanned fingers curled around Roger’s upper arm.  
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” the former number one said in a low voice, worried eyes watching the Swiss closely.  
For a second, his words left Roger speechless, in terms of just not knowing how to reply to it. Being close to Rafa never was a good idea, obviously, especially not in public – or at least in the catacombs of a Grand Slam court.  
  
“Who saw you coming here?” Carlos asked, his brows drawn together.  
“I took the back door,” Roger replied unnecessarily and took a deep breath. Of course he did not walk in through the main entrance, still in his training gear, with fear written all over his face only to be caught by the TV cameras. He could not be sure, though, that some photographers had not caught sight of him anyway.  
The press was everywhere, during a Grand Slam.  
Carlos closed the door of the locker room behind them, leaving them alone in the room with Rafa’s physio and two of his cousins.  
  
“Is he in there?” Roger asked, pointing at a door at the other side of the room that was probably leading to the showers. Carlos nodded.  
The Swiss could not help thinking that Rafa’s entourage looked rather lost, worry and helplessness written all over their faces.  
The absence of Toni Nadal had never been more obvious. He would know what to do, Roger was sure of that. Rafael’s uncle _always_ knew what his nephew had to do and most of the time, he was right with his decisions.  
“Has someone checked his knee yet? A doctor, I mean?”  
Carlos shook his head, but looked at the physio.  
“Paolo took a look at it but we have to wait until meds arrive. Can’t say anything right now.”  
Roger nodded slowly.  
  
“I want to talk to him.”  
Carlos let out a sigh that could have meant anything. But mostly, it sounded like defeat.  
  
“Okay.”  
Roger did not shoot him another look but went straight for the door, opening it carefully and being greeted by bright lights.  
Water was running in the showers but Rafa was lying on his back on one of the benches in the middle of the room, an arm thrown across his face, hiding what Roger suspected to be tears of frustration, disappointment and undoubtedly also fear.  
  
  
“Go away, Carlos,” Rafa mumbled when he heard the door being closed and the Swiss stepped into the room, not trying to be quit to make the Spaniard aware that he was coming closer.  
“It’s me, Rafa.”  
Like his coach just a few seconds before, the Majorcan now let out a noise that Roger could not interpret.  
“Roger…” his voice sounded raw, weak, even.  
The Swiss stepped further into the room, kneeling down beside the bench onto the cool tiles.  
Rafa was still wearing his match outfit, the pink hairband that was taming his sweaty dark looks just a little out of place.  
Roger decided against reaching for the Spaniard’s hand.  
  
“How are you feeling?” he asked instead.  
Rafa withdrew his arm from his face and looked up at the Swiss.  
  
“Broken,” he eventually said and Roger knew that he had meant it in a physical way but he could not deny the melodrama of the situation:  
Rafa, in his sleeveless shirts like those he had worn in his early years, when his hair had been a little longer, his locks even wilder and his muscles somewhat stronger, lying here in a body that was aging, despite all the effort the Spaniard was going through. A body that was aching and hurting and betraying him on his mission to become the greatest of all time.  
  
Young Rafa and the man in front of Roger still had so many things in common; a willpower the Swiss had never found in anyone else, this burning flame in their eyes to always keep pushing, to never settle and the ability to take Roger’s breath away.  
This time, he did not suppress the urge to take the Majorcan’s hand in his and slide their palms against each other.  
Rafa’s fingers instantly curled around his, the taping tingling Roger’s skin.  
“What can I do for you?” Roger asked, because questioning the state of the younger one’s knee was pointless. It was what is was – which hopefully wasn’t another injury, but he wanted Rafa to know that he was there for _him_.  
  
Rafa was silent for a few seconds, just blinking up at him with his dark eyes and long lashes, his sore bottom lip caught between his teeth.  
  
“Hold me?” the Majorcan’s voice was quiet, shy, even and Roger let out a sigh, slipping an arm under Rafa’s back and wrapping his other one around Rafa’s stomach, pulling him a little closer to his own chest.  
Even though Rafa had just played a four and a half sets match, Roger could feel how cool his skin was though the fabric of his shirt, when the Spaniard leaned into his chest and curled a hand around the Swiss’ arm.  
His lips found Rafa’s forehead, which tasted salty.  
  
He didn’t have to tell the Spaniard how sorry he felt for him. The younger man knew that anyway and yet, Roger tried to show it by pressing a few more kisses to his temples, his fingers absently playing with the dark curls.  
They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, simply breathing in the scent of the other person and enjoying the calming sensation of feeling skin against skin, Rafa slowly warming up again in Roger’s arms.  
  
“Promise me one thing?” Rafa eventually asked, his accent stronger than usual, once again something that remind Roger of his lover’s younger version.  
“Anything,” he replied without a hint of hesitation.  
“You win here, yes? For me?”  
“All of my wins are dedicated to you.”  
Rafa let out a huff but the tension and pain was still in his voice, “You too cheesy, Rogelio.”  
Roger grinned against the Spaniard’s skin, “That doesn’t make it less true, though.”  
“Just win for me, no?” the Swiss thought he could hear a small smile in Rafa’s tone when he continued, “if old man like you can win a Grand Slam then I not have to worry about my knee, no? Still have much years to play in the future.”  
  
Roger ran his thumb up and down the younger man’s face and let out a chuckle.  
“You could tie your legs together and you’d still be better than half of the guys on the tour.”  
Rafa let out a snort at that and Roger was just glad he had made him smile.  
  
“I’m serious, Rafa. See, Andy even won Slams and that poor guy doesn’t even have a brain.”  
Rafael chuckled, “Sí, what would Andy do without Novak?”  
“What would I do without you?” Roger said and Rafa flushed in a deep shade of red.  
“Have 16 more Grand Slam titles?”  
Roger mumbled “idiot” against Rafa’s skin but he didn’t really mean it, nibbling along the Spaniard’s strong neck.  
“You’ll come back even stronger,” he breathed against the sun-tanned skin and found himself missing those hours in the sun in Manacor, with Rafa sunbathing on their shared towel like a cat enjoying the morning warmth.  
  
“Mh-mh,” Rafa made and turned around in Roger’s arms, facing him with an intense look in his dark eyes.  
“You’ll be supporting me.”  
Roger was not sure whether it was meant as a question or a statement and maybe Rafa didn’t even know himself.  
“Always.”  
Rafa nodded, slowly, holding his gaze with his.  
“Bien. Then I be strong.”  


**Author's Note:**

> I was heartbroken after today's match... I can't stop thinking about how different things might have turned out if only Rafa had won the second set.  
> But I'm actually just hoping that he'll be okay.
> 
> I hope you liked my little piece and if so, it would mean a lot if you left kudos or a comment.  
> All the love  
> Johanna


End file.
